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By 2001, Robbie Williams was at the top of his game and popularity as a solo artist. With the hits coming easy and no worlds left to conquer it was an opportune moment to detour leftfield and indulge the sort of swinging Sinatra, big band recordings he'd "always dreamed of making" that harked back to the 'theme' albums of Frank's glory days on Capitol Records (Williams' 'Swing When You're Winning' album was symbolically released on the 'Capitol' label to complete the homage). Indulge? Or self indulge - musically at least, this 'Somethin' Stupid' shadowboxes the Sinatra(s) 1967 version down to the last plucked string of Billy Strange's arrangement, making it a straight re-tread rather than a fresh interpretation of an old song.
In fact, the most significant difference between the two versions are the vocals themselves; despite not being a professional singer by trade, Kidman nevertheless matches Williams note for note, and whereas Nancy skirted round dad's dominant lead like a shy child awed, she isn't so cowed and faces down Williams as an equal. But then Robbie is no Frank either, and by keeping a tight lid on his usual fervour himself then this unfortunately becomes scant praise. In truth, both phone in a lullaby turn of politeness that has neither chemistry nor any spark of passion (which, with the awkward incest angle of the 1967 recording now defused, should have been pushed to the fore).
It's not folly, far from it, but then it's far from definitive either and my main bugbear is that it never even tries to raise itself higher than pastiche, a state of affairs that makes me question the point of such an enterprise; surely the aim of these 'American Songbook' type recordings is to take the opportunity to re-fashion/re-interpret the standards in your own style instead of indulging in an ego stroking vanity project? Which, ultimately, is what 'Somethin' Stupid' is - it takes more than a Fedora and a loose tie to take on Sinatra's mantle, and by pulling up at the first fence Williams (can't blame Kidman here) presents a hollow heart of a recording that lacks the courage of its own convictions. And that's not something I can readily buy into.
Much like punk in the late seventies, the UK Garage scene was a branch of music that always had an outlaw, do it yourself ethos about its output with a corresponding in-built attitude of non-compliance that gave the genre a keen, parent unfriendly edge. As a case in point, New Zealander Beddingfield created and recorded his garage track 'Gotta Get Thru This' using domestic software on his bedroom PC. Yes, I know the are many who'll roll their eyes at the 'not proper music' minimal electronic repetition of it and say "so what", but I in turn roll my eyes at them in the same way I would at food connoisseurs who poo poo fast food like chips by saying they are 'just' deep fried potatoes. Maybe they are, but they taste nice enough and anyway, chips are deep fried potatoes in the way that UK Garage is repetitive electronic beats - if you don't like either then fine, but you don't try and intellectualise what's essentially an emotional response to an external stimulus and act all superior about it (and UK Garage won't make you fat if you overdose on it either).
All of which is a roundabout way for me to set the scene to confirm that what I have to say about 'Gotta Get Thru This' is said without prejudice. Because I don't much like it. Yes, fair play to Beddingfield for his home made achievement, but to my ears 'Gotta Get Thru This' is a touch too minimal and a touch too repetitive to be genuine; Beddingfield's beats are too rinky dink to stir the blood - they sound like they were knocked up in a bedroom. Beddingfield himself is all over the tune with a curious falsetto that adds no stock to the stew and his white bread whine is, to me, the antithesis of what UK Garage was all about - instead of the urban, inner city danger that the genre normally replicates, the garage that houses 'Gotta Get Thru This' is on a tree lined avenue with a Mondeo parked in it. I flinched from calling 'Gotta Get Thru This' the 'Ice Ice Baby' of Garage at first because it seemed a bit harsh, but now the more I listen to it, the more apt it seems.
From the power pop of 'Keep On Movin', S Club 7 wipe the smiles off their faces again for an earnest Cathy Dennis ballad of love gone astray. Dennis is usually reliable in her output and true to form 'Have You Ever' is a mature outing that wouldn't be out of place spilling from the mouth of a Celine or a Whitney. Which isn't really what you buy S Club 7 singles for, but Jo O'Meara handles lead vocal duty and the wordy lyric with power to spare and the self assurance of one glad of the opportunity to flex her muscles. Pity then that the ensemble vocal arrangement divides and lessens the "I" and "me" lyrical impact of what is essentially a first person outing and as surprisingly enjoyable as 'Have You Ever' is, it would have been moreso as a solo effort.
Life in Boybandville is such a simple affair isn't it? Everything is always either black or white; love is always on the menu, always eternal but the main course is invariably split between the joy of being in it or the pain of falling out of it. There's never the shade of grey of cinema and a meal or a nice walk on the beach; it's always the language of extremes and usually with some blissful Arcadian paradise just out of reach and hinging on a simple 'if only' to bring it within your grasp. 'If You Come Back' is typical market pleasing fodder of the latter variety. And by 'typical' I mean that it's nothing we haven't heard before - boy misses girl and wishes she would come back to him. Plus ca change.
Well it might be a simple enough concept on paper, but this is Boybandville and listening to 'If You Come Back' is a bit like watching a bad metal guitarist gurning through some whammy bar solo as if every note were being torn from his soul by invisible demons who then jabbed him in the eyes with their pitchforks for good measure. Blue wail and moan through their "and I swear if you come back in my life, I'll be there till the end of time" promises like the lads done wrong they pretend to be, but it's all effort wasted I'm afraid; no amount of window dressing is going to disguise 'If You Come Back's shameless referencing of Take That's 'Back For Good'.
From the "back to me, back to me, back into my life" stabs of backing vocal on the chorus to the cluelessly half baked 'it's not you it's me (but it's really you)' grovelling on "so if I did something wrong please tell me I want to understand" and "maybe I didn't know how to show it, maybe I didn't know what to say", this is Gary Barlow's song almost down to the name, albeit fitted out in false nose and beard of a spare urban R&B groove. That, at least, makes it more street edgy than the more formal shirt and tie traditionalism of Westlife, but the copycat pilfering undoes the good by a ratio of about ten to one, meaning what you gain on the swings you lose on the blatant plagiarism.
First single from the (then) new Westlife album, I can say upfront that 'Queen Of My Heart' does a few things very well. For one it does a good job of laying down fly paper enough to capture the listener early doors with an easily followed melody thread that you just know is leading to a chest baring chorus of eternal love with no loose ends flapping. But these are good traits only in the context of snaring an audience not renowned for their fondness of surprises and 'Queen Of My Heart's carefully plotted progression cloaks it in a paint by numbers predictability that leaves precious little emotional manoeuvre for going outside the lines. In fact, it feels like a song that's never been touched by human hands and was instead constructed by robots selecting the appropriate components from a carefully numbered library database.
And what a lot of components there are: heartfelt yearn #3, peeling bells #7, massed voices #2 &11, by rote "This memory will last for eternity, and all of our tears will be lost in the rain" lyrics of epic yet ultimately hollow grandstanding #38 - oh yes, the team behind Westlife knew their market well and they go for its collective throat like vampire starved of blood; 'Queen Of My Heart' has all these and more, each piling on top of the next like a card sharp's expert shuffling until the (essentially) slight ballad beneath gives up trying to be heard over that cheating dealer's attempts to make it more substantial than it has any business being and lets the force of that imposed bluster alone fill its sails and carry it. Which is more than enough for the average fan to get misty eyed over. But for those of us not already seduced by the charms of five Irish pretty boys, there's nothing in its safety first, vacuum packed sterility that's going to convert, particularly when that plastic packaging is out of all proportion to the contents its keeping in check.
"Everybody must get stoned", so sang Bob Dylan on his 1966 'Rainy Day Women #12 & 35". I don't know if Afroman (aka rapper Joseph Foreman) was listening, but in 'Because I Got High' he serves up an equally blatant promotion of soft drug use in a song that's a roll call of things on his 'to do' list that didn't get done because he was stoned over the most minimal of hip hop beats. Thus "I was gonna clean my room until I got high", "I was gonna go to class before I got high", "I was gonna go to work but then I got high"; you get the picture.
Yes, 'Because I Got High' is a one joke, one trick pony alright, but just like a slasher film sequel ramping up the gore and bodycount to try and mask the fact that you're just getting more of the same, Foreman tries to compensate for its one trickness by pushing his drug induced failings as far as decency will allow as the song goes on. Thus the above gives way to "I wasn't gonna run from the cops but I was high, I was gonna pull right over and stop but I was high. Now I am a paraplegic - because I got high" and " I was gonna make love to you but then I got high. I was gonna eat yo pussy too but then I got high. Now I'm jacking off and I know why. Because I got high"; you get the picture.
But while there's a certain original 'Friday the 13th' pleasurable shock of the new value to hearing Afroman relating his litany of screw ups in his sunny natured, couldn't give a toss swagger at the start, we're wading through turgid 'Friday the 13th Part Ten: Jason X' territory long before the third verse where Foreman himself sounds like he's getting bored with his own song. And yes I know that 'Jason X' has its admirers amongst genre fans with low taste thresholds and I'm equally sure there are swathes of nineties throwback surf/skate slackers or alternative minded students rebelling against their middle class background who'll get a kick out of this (and a 'huh huh' from the pussy joke) too. But for me, the whole afro/baked vibe is a cliché too far and in any case I struggle to see the humour - not because I'm prudish about drug use in anyway; I just think our Afroman comes across as a bit of a cock and I'm kind of left wishing that he'd never found his way to the studio on that day because he'd got.......overdosed on low grade crack cut with rat poison. That would learn him to take his responsibilities more seriously.
I have to confess that, had you asked me at the time which of the eighties acts who were then doing good business would forge a career with legs enough to not only take them into the new Millennium but to also record the most played song of the 2000’s*, I would not have pegged Kylie as a likely candidate. Or even a wild card bet to be honest - Madonna or Michael Jackson maybe, but not the one time Aussie soap star with the bad perm and nosy honk. Not on the basis of her early singles anyway, my views on which are there for all to see.
Ah but that was then and this is now and, as I pointed out back on 'Spinning Around', Kylie's career - whether by accident or design – turned out to be one that was playing an exceptionally long game. Few pop stars have the luxury of being able to wait 13 years before getting ‘round to recording their signature tune, yet 'Can't Get You Out Of My Head' has come to be identified so closely with Minogue that a photo-biography published just one year later in 2002 had the confidence to title itself 'Kylie La La La'.
'La La La'? Oh yes, Kylie's "la la la" motif on this is as instantly recognisable/memorable as The Beatles’ "yeah yeah yeah"s or even the opening bars of Beethoven's Fifth. A constant presence throughout the song, they’re the swinging watch that hypnotises her into a somnambulistic trance to daydream about the boy she can't forget. A simple melody to be sure, a cool and seductive chant that any mother might have improvised to comfort a crying baby, yet its strength lies in that simplicity in the same way that attaching a pound of metal to a stick of wood provides a devastatingly simplistic and almost unimprovable means of driving a nail into a wall.
It's a simplicity that extends to the song as a whole, a pared to the bone 'popcorn' bounce that Kylie rides with the low key confidence of knowing it's never going to buck her off. In fact, its basic structure is such that it literally paints itself into a corner on three separate occasions during its running time, only for those "la la la"s to throw it a lifeline. Written by the unlikely as hell on paper team of Cathy Dennis and Rob Davies (formerly of seventies glam stompers Mud who also co-wrote 'Groovejet' and 'Toca’s Miracle' ) 'Can't Get You Out Of My Head' works its magic like sleeping gas; you don’t have to be fully conscious that it's there in the room with you for it to seep into your consciousness.
How much of its success is down to Kylie herself? Would I be very uncharitable in saying very little? True, Kylie pushes her Pop Pixie ™ persona to the max in the promo video, but it's also worth remembering that 'Can't Get You Out Of My Head' was turned down by both Sophie Ellis Bextor and S Club 7 before Kylie picked it up and, to pick up my previous musings on what makes a pop song a ‘good’ one, I can't imagine it being anything other than a hit if either of those had got there first. Hell, even Mud could have had a hit with it. In fact, by adopting a coy snarl, Kylie's own vocal recalls Bextor's on 'Groovejet', meaning she didn't even have to sound like herself to make it work.
Maybe though this was the package that sells it the best, the combination of that Pop Pixie ™ persona mixed with the clean lines of the song that made it a sumptuous treat in a way that serious Sophie or the multi-angled S Clubbers wouldn’t have. Maybe. But whatever - 'Can't Get You Out Of My Head' remains as shiny as a freshly minted penny. And, just like that penny, it comes with a dry familiarity that lacks the confrontational edge of, say, the similarly pared to the bone 'I Feel Love' (a song that's a close cousin) that speaks the universal language of irresistibility without causing the slightest offence to anyone. La la la, la la la la la………..
* In late 2011, the Performing Rights Society declared 'Can't Get You Out Of My Head' to be the most played song of the 2000's.
Another cover version, 'Hey Baby' was first made famous as a Frank Ifield yodel light one hit wonder by country singer Bruce Channel in 1961. Austrian DJ Ötzi gifts it with no great dance reconstruction/deconstruction and instead simply pastes a Eurobeat bump update with added schlager oohm pah over the bare bones of the original. In fact, his biggest contribution some Teutonic 'rapping' and a set of 'Kung Fu Fighting' "uhh ahh"s in-between the chorus to maximise audience participation down at the fun pub. As remixes go it's quite the bluntest in the box, a flat edged knees up of jaded monotony where every sharp edge is dulled by its predictability until those "uhh ahh"s become the be all and end all focal point around which the whole song hinges, a repetitive smack from the stupid stick that makes Bob's re-imagining of 'Mambo Number 5' seem as innovative as Glenn Gould playing Bach. Stick this on a continuous loop with Black Lace's 'I Am The Music Man' and you have a soundtrack to the circle of hell that Dante didn't have the courage to write about - the one reserved for those who practice forced jollity on a Saturday night. May they all burn together.
It's rare for a children's television show to spawn two number one singles, so kudos to Bob The Builder for being the first (in the UK anyway). The title says it all really - 'Mambo Number 5' is a parody of Lou Begba's 1999 interpretation of the dance tune, albeit with 'Bobified' lyrics. Thus, Begba's "A little bit of Monica (etc) in my life" becomes "A little bit of timber and a saw, a little bit of fixing that's for sure. A little bit of digging up the road, a little bit of moving heavy load" litany of industry tasks that Bob is only too willing to carry out. In truth it's the sort of one joke shot that The Barron Knights forged a thirty year career out of stretched out to full song length. For my own part I can get a lot of humour out of imagining ladies man Begba now a henpecked husband being led around B&Q on a Sunday by Monica, Sandra, Erica and Rita, each with their own 'to do' list for him. Ears younger than mine will no doubt derive equal pleasure from that faithfully covered Mambo rhythm that now clicks like clockwork and keeps it busy to the end. And when it comes down to it, they are the only ears that count here aren't they?
A cover version of a 1998 hit for American R&B act Next, their original single was a bottle of sauce concerning the lads slow dancing with a woman, wondering "if she could tell I'm hard right now" and if she can "feel a little poke coming through" set to a generic yet suitably grinding rhythm that played out like an eighties Prince B side. Brit boy band Blue switch the red light for white and re-classify the tune from an 18 to a PG by lightening it with a major key change and toning down the more overt hard on references in the lyrics to sell it to a younger fanbase. Or, as is more likely, not to offend their folks, though they can't resist putting a shout out for the song's parent album at the intro which happens to be 'All Rise'. Shameless plugging or knowing in-joke? I don't think it matters - 'Too Close' as a song is a dull affair regardless (there are nine people credited as writing it. Nine!). The Carry On innuendo of the original is trowelled on too po-faced to be humorous while Blue's take smacks of a copycat act in thrall to the American boy band template and too content to lazily put on someone else's clothes, albeit a set modified to suit the audience rather than the people actually wearing them - that So Solid Crew single seems a lifetime away already.
No, not another eighties cover - this 'Let's Dance' is an original. I don't know if Five saw the writing on the wall career wise (there would only be one more single after this), but 'Let's Dance' has a last throw of the dice, everything but the kitchen sink feel about it. Busy to the point of hysteria, 'Let's Dance' takes in Euro House, Chic inspired seventies disco, bubblegum pop and hip hop in a game of musical pass the parcel that picks them up, puts them down and never settles on a single theme other than busy. Such an eclectic pick and mix could have been as messy as a fast lane car crash so it's to the credit of the production team and writers that the component parts bleed into each other seamlessly rather than grate and the centre always holds good - or rather, good to a point; 'Let's Dance' is a dry stroll around Madam Tussaud's where only the most truly deluded would believe they were meeting the real thing(s). Fake? That's probably being too harsh; not genuine certainly, but saying that, 'Let's Dance' is by far the most agreeable of Five's trio of number ones, largely through its exuberance, but also through its bare faced cheek in trying to please as wide an audience as possible.
Although we've already encountered previous entries that arrived from out of the UK Garage scene, examples to date always seemed to me to be diluted with an element of novelty that made them palatable to a wider mainstream audience. It also applied a taming, broadbrush whitewash over the pirate radio, inner city dance scene that spawned it in the same way that Europe 'tamed' heavy metal for a 1986 audience who would not have gone near 'Master Of Puppets' or 'Reign In Blood'. None of which troubles '21 Seconds', an out and out garage track that makes no concession to commercial niceties. I've mentioned before that South London's So Solid Crew were a conglomerate akin to a home-grown version of the Wu Tang Clan (each of the So Solid Crew gets a verse of their own to big themselves up on), and like the Staten Island rappers they came with an aura of outlaw danger and urban dread that arose from the source and carried over into the music.
Initially anyway - though they would lighten up in the future, '21 Seconds' sees So Solid Crew very much inside the Garage tent pissing out. The relentless, two step beats and rhythm tick like a bomb to provide a click track of tension heightened by the machine gun vocal fire of street slang and references to "niggas wanna see nigga get rich" that jar in amongst the candyfloss of 2001. And because of it, '21 Seconds' is a wound coil, four minutes of grime given a perfunctory wipe across the mouth that showcases both the vibrancy of British dance culture that exists below the horizon away from the kitsch and the youth that created it. I'm not going to pretend that it's a world that I've ever been a part of or (to be honest) ever wanted to be, but it makes me wish I was young enough to have been. But in any case, I'd like to think I'm savvy enough to recognise the sound of a pushed envelope when I hear it and on those terms it's immensely gratifying to find that the record buying public can still occasionally look beyond the corporate denominator and pull off a genuine surprise.
What's going on? 'When The Going Gets Tough', 'Take On Me', 'Uptown Girl', 'Against All Odds', 'It's Raining Men' and now 'Eternal Flame' - for a decade frequently reviled as the one taste forgot, the eighties are proving a rich seam to plunder for the stars of the 2000's to get their hits, even if they aren't exactly cherry picking the crop. Originally a 1989 number one for Bangles, Atomic Kitten overhaul the stilted chime of that version and paste a steady 'dum dum dum' beat over the top to provide the necessary middle of the road cats eyes for the Kittens to follow, both solo and in harmony. Like a Hollywood remake of a successful 'foreign film', it smoothes the wrinkles of Bangles version flat, but in so doing it also removes the quirky charm of both the melody and Susannah Hoff's original lead vocal to leave a cool, plain dish that's badly in need of some seasoning - if you can't improve something then leave it alone girls.
A double A side (to the point of having complementary promotional videos), 'Eternity' sees Williams drop the court jester act for a work of more sober introspection apparently inspired by his relationship with Geri Halliwell. "You were there for summer dreaming, and you gave me what I need. And I hope you find your freedom, for eternity" - I don't doubt Williams' sincerity on this tribute to friendship; 'Eternity' has a vague Scott Walker circa 1968 air about it's melody that's pleasing, and it's refreshing to hear Williams forego his usually cocky swagger to supply a vocal of cracked humility. That much is good. But unlike the lush arrangements that gave Walker's songs the sweep of the majestic, 'Eternity' has the unfinished 'on the hoof' shakiness of a piano led demo waiting for a sprinkle of fairy dust to make it complete. That doesn't detract from the song itself per se, but like hearing the many pieced together bootleg versions of the Beach Boys 'lost' SMiLE album, it does kind of make me long to hear a different version that doesn't exist, which in turn adds a mild frustration in knowing that it could have.
'The Road To Mandalay' carries on the same downbeat theme via a back to basics acoustic picked melody opener and a self flagellating lyric of personal regret -"Every mistake I've ever made, has been rehashed and then replayed as I got lost along the way". But then the mood soon turns chipper with a "Bum-bum-bum bu-du dum-bum-bum" marching refrain that digs in the spurs to usher in a spirited shuffle that carries the song to the end and adds some sun to take the edge off the shadows cast by Robbie's confessional. In keeping the vague late sixties mood, in its tone and substance 'The Road To Mandalay' reminds of Small Faces' 'The Universal', and like that song it would have benefited from stopping well short of the three minute mark. Because for all its initial appeal, 'The Road To Mandalay' shows all its cards early and its hand becomes more of an indulgence the longer its played. A flawed release then, but in truth I wouldn't turn either song off if they came on the radio.
'Another Chance' is another House tune with a definite Francophile/Daft Punk soft throb that woozes like sleeping gas and a "If I had another chance tonight I'd try to tell you that the things we had were right" mantra whose desperation in repetition generates the emotional jolt of a HAL 2000 model on the verge of pulling its own plug. It may be House, but by keeping things de minimis then 'Another Chance' is downbeat enough to make this one come with a leaky roof that Sanchez is content to sit under on a rainy day just to make sure he really feels sorry for himself. House music you can mope to? I like.
Second single from the Popstars winners, I was tempted to write a joint review of this with the previous take on 'Lady Marmalade'. It would have been convenient because I have a similar problem with the two; both songs are dogged by a series of individual voices who would all like to be first among equals. But whereas Pink and the gang were already major stars engaging in a pissing contest based around how raunchy they could be, the fame of the Hear'Say five rose without trace and with no backstory back catalogue to fill in the question marks about just exactly who these people were, they're forced to honk their own trumpets like a set of quins each vying for the most attention from mother.
A bigger difference between the two though that made me take them separately is that 'Lady Marmalade' was a quality song and virtually unsinkable; this Love' isn't. On both counts. - 'The Way To Your Love' is the predictable songcraft of a one finger exercise pop ballad riddled with stock "Fill my shadows with light" platitudes, and no matter how hard the band gurn their faux emotive 'ooh' and 'ahh's, there's no making a pigskin purse from the sow's ear of its one dimensional blandness, let alone a silk one. But in trying to do so 'The Way To Your Love' stabs with a needle hard 'never mind the quality feel the width' veneer of buffed chrome plate that makes for a listen that's as comfortable as passing razor wire through your ears and flossing. Given the hype then it's probably about as good as it needed to be in 2001, but with all the dust long since settled there's a certain sense of, once created, nobody really knew what to do with these 'Popstars' and 'The Way To Your Love' is left spinning in its own self created vacuum with no direction anywhere, least of all home.
A mere three years after All Saints had taken it to number one, 'Lady Marmalade' gets another outing from another four latter day pop divas. And like that All Saints take, comparisons with the original find Pink et al running a deficit, mainly because this time the quartet aren't all necessarily pulling in the same direction. It's fair to say that none of the players here would be shy about tackling the song's whore house origins head on, yet for all the overt stockings and suspenders soft porn imagery of the promotional video, this 'Lady Marmalade' is a surprisingly cold and frigid affair that tries too hard to allow each star a comfort zone to strut their 'day job' stuff. Thus, Christina and Pink thrive on the guitar pop crunches while Lil' Kim and Mya get their own R&B stylings to rap over and all jockey for pole position on the sexy scale. Predictably, the result of so many cooks is spoiled broth in the form of a disjointed take that buries its one time sexy groove in a welter of hard nosed fussiness that models expensive lingerie on a plastic tailor's dummy. And the result is just about as erotic.
I've had a lot of time for Shaggy's reggae fusion output to date, largely because I've always had a lot of time for reggae per se, but the wink in Shaggy's vocal has always helped add the extra icing. But despite all that, I can't honestly say I'm all that taken with 'Angel'. Maybe it's because by now I've heard it all before - and I don't just mean the genre style either. Whilst never going so far as to kick over any statues, 'It Wasn't Me' was at least an original song delivered with a humour that endeared. 'Angel', on the other hand, takes its main melody from Chip Taylor's 'Angel Of The Morning' and its backbone from a bassline sampled from Steve Miller's 'The Joker', both of which are distinctive enough in my mind to effectively cancel out anything Shaggy has to add, almost to the extent that his input is redundant. And that input in itself is at best opaque, with a surface lyric of love and devotion hiding cryptic "She was there through my incarceration" clues that give it a vague 'Tie A Yellow Ribbon' theme that never fully reveals itself. Some enthusiastic toasting from Rayvon adds to the (over) familiarity, but ultimately the whole is just about solid enough to drown out the sound of the scrapes as the bottom of the barrel makes itself known. Only just mind.
Another one hit wonder from the UK garage scene, 'Do You Really Like It?' neatly clefts itself in two between the standard, self promoting braggadocio of the two step rhythm that makes up its core, and the "Do you really like it, is it is it wicked" bridging sections that top and tail it. Which to be honest are the 'bits' that you're probably going to recognise to the exclusion of everything else. And I think, just like the TV samples on the previous 'Bound 4 Da Reload (Casualty)' entry, it provides the in-built gimmick that sells the tune to a wider audience who might otherwise find the genre impenetrable. So regardless of any serious intent it may have, I find I can't take 'Do You Really Like It?' on any level other than the novelty, a view re-affirmed by the fact that those "We're loving' it, lovin' it, lovin' it" chants always remind me of Joy Sarney's 1977 hit 'Naughty Naughty Naughty'. Which is hardly a firm basis for taking anything seriously is it?
For all the kickings I’ve dished out to her regarding her solo career, I have to confess that I sometimes find it difficult to tell if Geri Halliwell is very stupid, very brave or very clever. Certainly clever for making a smidgen of talent spread over an awful lot of bread since 1999, but I’m finding there's an elusive quality to the woman that means, try as I might, I can’t to pin down with certainty enough to answer my own question, this latest release being a case in point.
'It’s Raining Men' of course was originally a 1984 Hi-NRG disco hit for The Weather Girls back in 1984. Was Halliwell brave/stupid enough to think that soggy wafer that passes for her voice was ever going to compete with not one but two disco divas (Izora Armstead and Martha Wash) with the soprano blast of a siren delivering the three minute warning? How could she? Those girls in the original soak the fist thick groove in a wash of oestrogen fuelled joy born of women glad to be women; when they sing "I'm gonna go out, I'm gonna let myself get ab-so-lut-ley soaking wet" you know they don’t just mean they're not going to take their brollies with them. In contrast, Halliwell’s take is a functional drought zone, flat and dry as a puddle of dust.
But then she probably never set out to match them at their own game, and that's because she was also probably clever enough to know she didn't need to; Halliwell knows the song is icon strong enough for her just to turn up and do the bare minimum, that is to breeze over the proceedings like a thin film of oil and happy to let the tune itself do all the heavy lifting. Indeed, Halliwell’s main input is being Geri herself, playing to the gallery of the gay following she'd attracted while simultaneously donning skimpy pants and sports bra in the accompanying 'Flashdance' aping video to ensure the straight male fans weren't too alienated by it all.
Brave, stupid or clever? I still can't tell. But what I do know is that Geri Halliwell singing 'It’s Raining Men' is akin to filling a spacehopper with concrete; it still looks much the same as it ever did, but by god it's a lot less fun to bounce on.
After the more furrowed browing of 'Never Had A Dream Come True', S Club 7 head back to the pop factory for a career defining floor filler with a slowburn build to a sunburst chorus that's as catchy as the catchiest Eurovision entry but with none of the cheese. All of which means 'Don't Stop Movin'' falls squarely into my definition of 'good pop'; the seven clubbers combined stamp no discernible identity onto it, but it doesn't matter - it sells itself on the back of its own robotic groove. And to prove it, it already has once before. Sort of; the sunshine of 'Don't Stop Movin'' is darkened to an extent by the shadow cast by 'Billie Jean', a song to which it's oh so obviously in hock.
If you don't believe me, listen to the evidence - the creeping stealth of the introductory bassline giving way to a tension relieving chorus of both is such that they could be split from the same zygote, with 'Don't Stop Movin'' the good twin and Jackson's song being the bad seed that offers up the nervy twitch of the glance behind to the former's straight to the face welcoming smile. In the absence of such purpose being deliberate though (and I don't for a second believe it was), then like finding out your child scored an A in the test by cheating, the bare faced borrowing of 'Don't Stop Movin'' finds a bit of its surface shine tarnished by the cheeky plagiarism. More than a bit actually; 'Don't Stop Movin' is sometimes hailed as a 'guilty pleasure', but it's got more to feel guilty about than its kid friendly pop-ness.
Hot on the heels of 'Independent Women Part One' comes another treatise on....independent women. "Now that you're out of my life, I'm so much better. You thought that I'd be weak without you, but I'm stronger": Beyonce and the girls ramp up the 'I Will Survive' factor to the max by barking out their defiance in an overwound clock of bug eyed R&B that judders along under it's own self generated friction. There's a breathless intensity about 'Survivor', a no brakes hysteria that leaps into your face from the off and holds its breath until the finish. Nothing wrong with a bit of passion, but the brash humourlessness of 'Survivor' doesn't welcome the casual listener and the manic vacuum it creates is a bit of a turn off to be honest.
Took so long for what? To release a solo single? Surely the one time Baby Spice wouldn't be so presumptuous as to assume that the world was waiting to see what Emma did next? From where I was standing, Bunton floated like gossamer over the Spice output, stamping nothing of herself onto it in the process and instead seemed overly keen to use that two finger 'girl power' salute to make up for what she didn't have in personality or identity within the band - just what was that 'Baby' about anyway? And so it comes as no surprise to find that same lack of identity carries over into her solo single; Bunton's voice in isolation is as thin as air at high altitude and as such 'What Took You So Long' wisely gives the chunky R&B outings of both Mels a wide berth. Instead, 'What Took' is the mainstream pop of Geri's powered by an almost cowpunk acoustic strum of purpose that bullies Bunton's voice into its wake. Which isn't a disaster, but it leaves her as the girl in the corner at her own party. Inoffensive to the point of bland, there's not much to 'What Took You So Long' beyond the expected level of professionalism, and that's as slick as it's unmemorable. But it does mean that, to date, 'Posh Spice' is the only one of the girls not to have a solo number one hit. Wonder if it keeps her awake at night?
At various points across the decades I've touched upon the old chestnut of the 'real' v 'manufactured' music argument. To state it baldly, I mean the way some people will dismiss a certain artist or band out of hand as somehow being 'not real' or worthy of their (or any) attention. The underlying reason always seems to be that if an act hasn't paid its dues by building success on the live circuit or aren't playing their own songs on 'proper' instruments then they're operating at a remove from the realms of 'proper music' and any success they enjoy is unearned and unwarranted. The Monkees are usually held up as a classic example that both confirms (four guys selected by audition to mime to other people's songs) and refutes this stance (they did actually produce some very fine singles), but latterly its come to apply to a wider ranging field of criticism that takes in music from a DJ promoting his latest remix (of someone else's song) to the clean cut boy bands grinning in syncopation at the camera. As I write this, Lana Del Ray is getting the same treatment regarding her 'authenticity' from a vocal section of the public annoyed at her sudden fame - in that respect the times are most definitely not a' changin'.
For my own part I tend to hold a certain ambivalence or disinterest toward the argument, though I'll admit that's not always been the case. In times past I've filtered my perception of what was 'real' music through the net of my own snobbery, but the more enlightened me of the here and now has more regard to the end product itself rather than the name on the tin it was delivered in. As I've stated elsewhere, 'Mr Tambourine Man' is generally lauded as a landmark release and few would dare suggest that it's not 'proper music', yet in truth only one 'Byrd' plays on it and the rest of the 'band' made up of session musician guns for hire, and ones playing someone else's song at that.
Come 2001 though, there was a sea change in popular culture that rammed any 'behind the scenes' shenanigans firmly into the public eye. The cause? 'Popstars', a TV show presented as a psuedo documentary based around the formation of a brand new pop group. The aim of Popstars was to throw light on the mechanics of the backroom boys by showing the auditions and rehearsals etc as the band was pieced together while still trying keeping to sell the dream like a father trying to convince a child that Santa actually exists after dutifully pulling on a Father Christmas suit in front of him on Christmas Eve. Because by the end of the series there was a product that needed selling.
This wasn't strictly a new development of course; talent shows have been a common feature of domestic television for almost as long as television was domesticated and the likes of Patti Boulaye, Showaddywaddy, Peters & Lee and Mary Hopkin all caught their first break via exposure through such shows as 'New Faces' and 'Opportunity Knocks'. But it wasn't really as simple as that either - most of these were already established acts on the live circuit and so a certain amount of those all important, legitimising dues had already been paid before that opportunity came knocking. What 'New Faces' et al gave them was the much needed exposure that took them out of the clubs and into the public's consciousness, a precious commodity in the pre Facebook and You Tube days of the seventies. Popstars, on the other hand, was solely concerned with plucking five complimentary individuals from obscurity and throwing as much money at them as was necessary to shape them into a successful pop group, all played out in the high profile glare of a much watched TV show that gave hope to millions that, but for a lucky break, they could be famous too.
And it worked, after a fashion - the resulting/winning band Hear'say scored a number one with their first single that, to date, was the fastest selling debut of all time. For a while they enjoyed the fame of, if not Kings then at least of The Beatles at their peak. It didn't last of course, but then I'm guessing it was never meant to - sustained fame would have deflected attention from the next round of hopefuls queuing up to audition for Popstars: The Rivals the following year which had its own end product to shift (we'll be meeting the outcome of that little adventure later). I didn't watch Popstars in 2001. Not though innate snobbery, but through a genuine surfeit of better things to do, so I'm happy to ditch the baggage and take 'Pure And Simple' at face value, not worrying too much that Hear'say had never played King Tut's Wah Wah Hut in Glasgow on their way to the top.
So what of it? Well in a move almost tailor made to wind up the 'proper music' fans yet another notch, 'Pure And Simple' was originally earmarked for and recorded by all girl band Girl Thing before being given to Hearsay for their debut. Again, a good pop message should remain regardless of the messenger so none of this should matter, but 'Pure And Simple' was never pop of particularly good vintage, and on its own merits it singularly fails to impress regardless of who was serving it up. Girl Thing scrape out their parchment dry harmonies like they're scraping shit off their shoes, yet even through the pain of their delivery it's clear how much 'Pure And Simple' sounds like All Saints' 'Never Ever', especially the latter's "Never ever have I ever felt so low, when you gonna take me out of this black hole?" sections. Much too much really.
To throw the lawyers off the scent, Hear'Say's take comes with a harder urban edge(supplied mainly through what sounds suspiciously like a uncredited TLC drum sample), to fashion a re-tooled version that's reluctant to let itself be carried solely on that main melody and instead falls under heavy fire from kitchen sinks full of backing vocals and fussy detours that do all they can to throw the shared lead vocal off course. Like dressing a skeleton in stiff clothes and splints to make it to stand upright by itself, 'Pure And Simple' use its sonic busyness to try and disguise the fact that there's only the bare bones of a song underneath and it all goes to starve 'Pure And Simple' of air to present a starched and swampy stew of leftovers reheated until they're burned back to tasteless - it's hard to think of a song that more belies its title than this one.
There's no light in 'Pure And Simple', no art and no craft - as a single it's all tightly packed molecules that make up the forced grin of a desperation to be liked rather than the easy smile of confidence that it's going to be, a situation born from the fact that the underlying song is plain done and simply not very good. Which to my mind is a far worse criticism that claiming it's not 'real' music. But however you want to cut it, the significance of 'Pure And Simple' getting to number one can hardly be overstated; the charts own Rubicon had been crossed and things from here on in would never be quite the same again.
For a band whose very name and operating genre is enough to generate an automatic turn off for many, I think I've been more than fair to Westlife over the past few months. Without prejudice, each song has been taken on its own terms and, wherever credit was due, credit has been given. But I can only take this so far - I knew there would come a point where lines would be crossed, sharks would be jumped and patience would be at an end. Like here; 'Uptown Girl' is basically a straight re-reading of Billy Joel's 1983 hit, no more and no less. And by 'straight' I mean straight; Westlife add not one iota of originality or personality of their own to the mix and instead content to follow Joel's trail with the dilligence of a dog tracking a fox.
Which begs the question - what is the point? Whatever you thought of Joel's original (which in my case wasn't much), at least it had the smug purpose of showing off his trophy wife behind it whereas I can only presume that Westlife were just attracted by a catchy tune. But even those with a desperate itch to hear Westlife sing 'Uptown Girl' will feel short changed by the slavish attention to mimicry on display here (they even mimic/parody Joel's rolling Noo Yawk R's). And for those on the other side of the fence harbouring no such desires, it's simply petrol for their already blazing bonfire of boyband vanities. And yes, I know it was the 'official' 2001 Comic Relief single so there was at least some 'point' to it all, but in truth any Westlife single would have done the same job and so any philanthropy is tainted by a cheapskate, bare minimum of effort diversion of royalties (which the band wouldn't have seen anyway) from a lazy cover version to a good cause whilst keeping their profile high ('Uptown Girl' would appear on their forthcoming 'World Of Our Own' album, proudly advertised as containing four number ones). In short, 'Uptown Girl' does neither Westlife or boybands any favours and no credit is due to them for it. None at all.
A major crossover hit for Jamaica's Shaggy, 'It Wasn't Me' fuses reggae and dancehall with a good pop sensibility that invites everyone to the party with some Rik Rok toasting to ensure the faithful aren't alienated. What makes 'It Wasn't Me' shine is its sloppy humour; the aptly named Shaggy has been caught red handed by his girlfriend "butt-naked banging on the bathroom floor" with the floozy from next door. But rather own up to being a heel, Rok suggests the "It wasn't me" defence, even though there's apparently photographic evidence of him " bangin' on the sofa". Shaggy as Goebbels ("If you tell a lie big enough and keep repeating it, people will eventually come to believe it") might raise a feminist eyebrow or two in this context, but there's no reason why either sex can't be so audacious and so tap into the humour here (there's no indication that she's buying any of his crap either). And it's a humour that makes me prefer the 'clean' version of this where the above line is replaced with "caught making love on the bathroom floor" in a rare example of censorship actually improving something. Confection like this doesn't need a crude edge to mark it out, it manages just fine all by itself.
To my mind, Atomic Kitten always had a patina of Supersaver's Supremes about them, an all girl trio peddling the low end glamour of a stone clad council house. I'm not having a go; in fact, it made them seem more 'real' and 'girl next door' approachable than (say) US trio Destiny's Child ever could and it added to the appeal. And to keep the praise going, I can confess to always having a soft spot for 'Whole Again', though I'll caveat that by adding that most of my affection is reserved for the version cut when Kerry Katona was still in the line-up.
In that, Katona intones the "If you see me walking down the street, staring at the sky and dragging my two feet" verses in the teen melodrama sing/speak that echoed The Shangri-Las at their finest and provided a springboard for the "Looking back on when we first met, I can not escape and I can not forget" flywheel of a chorus. On the present take, new kitten Jenny Frost lightens the mood by singing those same lines as part of the song proper. But while this makes the whole more fluid, Frost's school production voice places too much emphasis on the main melody, meaning that the much repeated chorus becomes more of the same rather than a welcome break from the drama. Of which there is now none. 'Whole Again' is still a string of fairy lights fluttering in the breeze, but it took Katona to make them flash. Kerry Katona the anti dumbing down queen? Now that's not something I'm going to be able to say very often.
A heady mix of hard rock, rap and grunge, Nu Metal was a genre largely played by angst ridden, dreadlocked, white, middle aged Americans with 'issues' they were just dying to tell you all about. If that thumbnail biography sounds a bit derogatory, then it's meant to - no apologies, Nu Metal was always a step too far to me and being shouted at by some Cookie Monster soundalike over a sped up Black Sabbath riff is never going to be my idea of entertainment. Maybe I'm just too old. 'Rollin' at least spares the angst to deliver a more knockabout song that beats its chest and does a Tarzan call for all its worth. Chief Biscuit Fred Durst growls "Keep rollin' rollin' rollin' rollin'" for his supper, dinner and breakfast but he never once gives a clue where he wants to be rollin' too. I don't think he cares; simple movement is enough to show 'the man' he can't be stopped, and that kind of sums 'Rollin' up quite nicely - a clueless song swivelling frantically on its own self celebratory axis ("You want to mess with the Bizkit? (Yeah) You can't mess with the Bizkit (Why?) Cause we get it on") through the spin powered by its own noise but going precisely nowhere. 'Rollin' could probably 'work' when soundtracking something involving lots of violence and/or testosterone, but by itself it's the clown rock equivalent of the Outhere Brothers, huffing and puffing like some bullying blowhard relying on image to intimidate when all the time everyone knows a good punch in the face would send it crying home to mother.
Actress, singer, record producer, dancer, television personality, fashion designer, arse on legs and all round Renaissance woman, Jennifer Lopez's first UK number one is a poppy, R&B concoction that's keen to show off its urban, homegirl credentials. That's the idea anyway, but what we in fact get is a brittle as glass production from Ric Wake that freezes any heart in treble and a main theme that borrows a bit too heavily from Cyndi Lauper's 'She Bop'. Lopez herself is not without talent and she acquits herself as well as can be expected, but passion here is on a very low flame, making 'Love Don't Cost A Thing' a cold draught that clangs with its own emptiness and ultimately reeks of vanity project, albeit one with a large chunk of money thrown at it. Nice abs mind.
I've said before that I'm no connoisseur of House Music, but to my ears 'Touch Me''s shifting tempo and impassioned vocal marks it out as a superior example of the genre. Maybe that's because I can make out more of a 'traditional' song structure than usual in the Rorschach test of beats, but whatever, Cassandra Fox's vocal injects a passion and emotion rare in dance music which gives 'Touch Me' an appeal outside of the dancefloor as well as on it. In other words, to people like me. And for fact fans, it was the first UK number one to hail from Portugal.
By 2001, Robbie Williams was at the top of his game and popularity as a solo artist. With the hits coming easy and no worlds left to conquer it was an opportune moment to detour leftfield and indulge the sort of swinging Sinatra, big band recordings he'd "always dreamed of making" that harked back to the 'theme' albums of Frank's glory days on Capitol Records (Williams' 'Swing When You're Winning' album was symbolically released on the 'Capitol' label to complete the homage). Indulge? Or self indulge - musically at least, this 'Somethin' Stupid' shadowboxes the Sinatra(s) 1967 version down to the last plucked string of Billy Strange's arrangement, making it a straight re-tread rather than a fresh interpretation of an old song.
